His Weakness
by a-mild-looking-sky
Summary: It has been ten years since the disappearance of Legolas' mother and his father has become a lonely recluse who cannot come to terms with his solitude. Legolas will do anything to get him back. Legolas/Thranduil [rating will go up later]
1. Chapter 1

**His Weakness**

**A/N: As I said in the description, the pairing of this is Legolas/Thranduil which means I will be heading into the dark fanfiction realms of incest ~ don't say I didn't warn you if you read on! Please don't hate me xD I promise I will make it tasteful though and the pairing is a consensual one c:**

CHAPTER ONE

"Adar."

The one word echoed around the hollow chamber of the throne room, breaking the heavy silence that had prevailed until Legolas' arrival. It bounced off the many walls, permeating everything but its intended target, then faded, unheeded, into nothing. The halls fell silent again.

It brought back the weight to Legolas' heart. To be out of the palace for the day had lifted him a little, had temporarily chased away the suffocating grip around his chest. Even though his mission had been full of peril and potential harm, the adrenaline pumping through his veins had blocked out all other thoughts and given him freedom for a while. But the quiet, sombre atmosphere of his father's halls had caged him once more.

Thranduil didn't even turn to acknowledge his son's presence. He was staring over the rim of the central platform and down into the cavernous depths below. If he hadn't known, Legolas would have assumed he was another statue, watching without word or emotion over the realm. He wondered bitterly how very different his father was to that recently. It made his chest constrict even more to think such mournful things.

"Adar." He tried again, starting to advance up the stone stairs towards him. His footsteps sounded uncomfortably loud, yet Thranduil still didn't turn. Only a soft breeze whispering down from somewhere in the cave system and ruffling his hair showed that he was living.

Legolas approached him slowly, as if he were a resting wild animal that could suddenly awaken and strike. It was a strange sensation to be hesitant around his own father. But no one, not even he, could read Thranduil's moods. He was cold, unmoved by many things, carefully keeping all of his thoughts and feelings hidden far away inside. He had become a master of it recently, the icy mask only pierced by those ever-watchful blue eyes.

Legolas had been about to put his hand upon his father's shoulder when he sharply turned them upon him. The azure orbs bore deep into his own, unblinking, searching without much intent. Legolas drew back out of close proximity with him. He tried to trick himself it was to stand at a respectful distance but really, he could not take the burn of his eyes. They had made him wither ever since childhood.

"Adar," he said, then cleared his voice and tried again. "All of our party have returned safely. A few sustained minor injuries but none that will not heal quickly."

Thranduil acknowledged the news with a brief incline of his head. "Are you hurt?" he asked, but the potentially caring words were spoken without emotion. Legolas shook his head.

"No, I am fine." There was no reaction from his father, though he noticed his gaze had lost its intensity since he turned to face him, as if his mind was somewhere else. It would be nothing new. Legolas had often wondered how much of his father had been left behind with him, and how much was still walking, hunting, through those old, lost paths...

"Did you find them all?" His voice drew him back to the present. He nodded in answer.

"All those that strayed too close."

"That is good news." No one would have known this by the look on Thranduil's face. "You and your party have acted well today. Tell them that I thank them."

"Yes, adar."

Their conversations were always like this now; no more said than needed to be, an interaction stripped down to a bare skeleton. Much more could have been mentioned about Legolas' fight with the spiders - a discussion on their increased aggression, the sight of smaller spiders showing that they were breeding, the way the elves with him had seemed to lose their vigour only after a few hours... These things troubled Legolas but he knew that he would say no more to his father that night. Thranduil had other things on his mind. And that troubled him even more.

Times like these made him wish that he could just sit with him as in the old days and they could freely speak, or his father could willingly open up to him with no prompting or forcing. He was his only son, his only family, yet he treated him as no more than one of his advisors or courtiers. Once business had been talked of, he became nothing. Only the title of Prince separated him from all the rest.

Again oblivious to his son's thoughts, Thranduil dismissed him silently, already moving past and walking down the steps. His heart weighing like an anchor in his chest, Legolas watched him leave, as he had done so many times before. He wished there was something he could do, anything to reach out to him. But he was soon gone, vanished back into the depths of his vapid realm.

* * *

It was deep into the night when Legolas finally finished with his father's businesses. Many still asked him why he did this, why he so willingly took over duties intended for the king, and the answer he gave was always different. The king is not feeling adequate to think of heavy matters tonight; these papers are not important, it is fine that I deal with them; or even, if he was feeling more short-tempered, it is not your place to question how the duties of the royal household are carried out. It exhausted him more to deal with the people wanting to know about the king than the business itself. He wanted to tell them the truth, but if he was honest, he wasn't sure if he knew the full extent of it himself.

At least that night he had not had to lie - there was hardly a soul in the halls, and it comforted him somewhat. After many years of it, solitude had become warm and homely to him. He wished it wasn't like that - it was not a lifestyle he went to willingly. But the prisoner had to find some comforts in his cage while he was in there, if only to avoid going mad.

Wrapping his cloak tighter around him as a midnight breeze floated through the wide halls, Legolas cleared away the papers into the appropriate compartments and was glad to have them out of his sight. They were boring, monotonous, always the same. Yet he did them because he could not bear to see his father struggle over them. Only once in the last decade had he tried and Legolas had had to watch as he read, finely at first then something - he could not recall what - had arisen and his concentration had slipped, thoughts drifting to dark places. It had ended in frustration for both of them.

But, no matter how much he tried, Legolas could not forget his father's face that evening years ago. It had been the first occasion he had realised there was still something wrong, even after all that time. He remembered how he had looked up at him mournfully, an apology swimming in his blue eyes before it drowned and was washed over by anger. He had strode out of the room without another word, slamming shut the oak door, and nothing had been the same since. Legolas had finished his papers and then finished every one after that.

Now he shut the door firmly - the same door that Thranduil had not touched for ten years - and hurried down the outlying corridors towards his private chambers. The journey was not lengthy yet he always took a longer route which led him past what he considered his personal haven of the palace. It was hard to find, a small room at the end of a labyrinth of twining corridors. When his father had established it, he had asked if it shouldn't be somewhere more public, but Thranduil had been insistent on having it where it was. Years on, Legolas was glad his father hadn't capitulated to him. It was now a place where only they went, or, more often than not, only Legolas went.

Yet, when he arrived in front of the heavy doors to the room, he noticed that one was standing slightly ajar, as if somebody had just left or was still inside. Gently, he eased it entirely open and peered into the dark room beyond. There was nobody there, though the last dying embers of the fire showed that someone had been recently. It could have been no one but his father. He didn't know how that made him feel; joyed that he had at last made his way back to this private room, but saddened as to what that meant.

The space around him was decorated sparsely, a minimalistic, struggling tribute. Although most of the other rooms of the palace were huge and imposing, this one was much more quaint, merely a soft bench and a desk as its furniture. A single candle always burnt in its corner, illuminating the silent darkness. Legolas noticed it had been replaced recently, the wick clean and white.

The flame shuddered as he walked past it, making the walls waver around him. He crossed to the bench in the centre of the room and feeling the comforting warm glow at his back, sat upon the bundled pillows. There was always something different about this space to the rest of his father's halls; even now, when the winter felt eternal and remorseless, he found an ever-present peace blanketing everything within its four walls. He basked in it now, a numb comfort from the outside world washing over him.

He liked to think he knew the reason for this tranquility.

Upon the wall in front of the couch hung one of the most precious paintings of the woodland halls. His father did not care much for paintings usually, preferring grand carven statues, but in the case of this private room, he had made an exception. For, in a perfect exquisite likeness, the piece that dominated the sanctuary depicted his lovely wife, Legolas' mother. Many artists had offered their talents to sculpt her handsome form but stone had not seemed appropriate for her fair features and soft beauty. It had taken countless painters and countless canvases but finally, one delicate young, nameless elf had come to Thranduil with a small picture and Legolas had rejoiced to see the rare smile that touched his father's mouth. His eyes had shone, a last fleeting glimpse of mirth sparkling in them. It was perfect.

She watched Legolas now with that peaceful gaze, an eternal radiance seeming to emanate from her though she was nothing more than colours upon fabric. However, her portrayal was exactly how he remembered her and how he always would remember her; unspeakably beautiful, gentle and warm. Her presence would forever be felt in these halls as long as this room was kept alive.

He had hoped that the creation of this almost shrine-like room would help to bring joy back to his father as well, as it had done for him since his mother's disappearance. But, regrettably, he still saw no change. The last ten years had been a time of constant solitude for Thranduil. Even when he was around others in the realm, he was not truly with company but locked away in that dark, hidden space inside of himself. It scared Legolas. His greatest fear was that one day, it would become too much for him and his life would start to fade away, withering like a crushed flower without any sun. If that had not already started to happen.

He sighed lowly. He knew he had to do something. Something beyond the suggestions of walks in the forest and the aid of his hand in paperwork. It was swiftly becoming a delicate yet desperate situation and the price of his inactivity could turn out to be his father's life.

As he looked upon his mother, the warm centre of hope in his long days and weeks and years, he knew he was willing to try anything. She had been wondrous at comforting his father, a mere soft touch upon his face and a few whispered words and he would be as calm as the woodland in summer twilight. As an elfling, he had always thought she must have had magic inside of her, but a beautiful, wonderful magic. Now, when he was far older, he knew that his parents' bond, the strength of their love, must have been the cause of that serenity.

And he was now left with the consequences of that deep, tender union, where the pieces had been ripped apart. One had vanished into the depths of the forest to an unknown fate at the hands of spiders, orcs, dark magic, they didn't know, and the other had vanished into the depths of his troubled, lonely mind.

Legolas' heart felt heavy as he rose from the bench. However, the gentle harmony enveloping the room calmed him enough so that he knew what he must do. He could not sit by and be pushed away by his father any longer, for his sake, Thranduil's and the memory of his mother.

He left the candle burning as he departed the room. Firmly shutting the door behind him, he said a silent goodbye to the sanctuary and made for the direction of his father's chambers.

tbc

* * *

**um so... yeah. I feel like this pairing needs some explanation! Well it's not usually my thing at all and I wasn't going to write a legolas/thranduil fanfic but then I was influenced by some lovely people on tumblr and here it is! I'm a little sorry tbh. But don't say I didn't warn you ~ :3 **


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

At the end of a long, vaulted passageway in a distant wing of the palace lay Thranduil's room. It was secluded, withdrawn from the central hive of the realm, and accessible only to his most trusted of companions. However, as of late, not many but himself and Legolas made that lengthy journey there, instead leaving it to its solitude; an action the king seemed not to fret over in the slightest. Once evening came, he disappeared into the darkened depths and was not often seen again until the sun had cast its rays over the woodland. No one dared to mention that the position of the room had changed over time - the area where the private chamber used to exist had become an abandoned, desolate corner of the halls and had been nigh on left to waste away in its emptiness. No relic of previous life there had been maintained but cast off as if the painful memories could be cast off with it. As far as Legolas could understand though, it hadn't worked.

The relatively new chamber echoed the king's weakening state of mind. Although many did not have knowledge of the true depths of what was happening, it was plain to see the trouble brewing, if only in the bleakness of the decor in a kingdom so otherwise beautiful. As he approached his father's carven bedroom door, Legolas realised that all the torches that usually burnt outside had been extinguished, leaving the hall in murky darkness. The only light to be seen was one that slithered out from beneath the entrance to Thranduil's room, a flickering orange glow. It was a strained attempt in the midst of the void but Legolas drew to it, somewhat comforted by its warmth.

It also meant Thranduil must still be awake; but not often did he rest recently. Instead, he preferred to spend his nights pacing slowly up and down, thinking, wondering, lost in the tangled webs inside his mind. Legolas had visited him sometimes, though he was frequently informed not to, and tried to get him to stop this useless habit but it was a worthless attempt. Once he had become lost in those dark strands, it was hard to pull him back out.

However, that night, he was determined to rip and destroy those webs, just as he had done with countless physical ones outside the halls. Though he had a strong sense that this venture would be far more difficult, there was nothing else he could do now. His mind was set. And he could not bear this loneliness anymore, his father's or his own.

As he came before the great door, he paused and tried to listen for any noise coming from within. It surprised him somewhat to not hear anything, not even the sound of Thranduil's footsteps moving up and down the stone floor. Maybe he was actually resting that night, he wondered. But the presence of the flickering light made him think otherwise; his father preferred to spend these times in utter darkness. He supposed he liked the vacantness of it, the shelter devoid of any emotions or doubts. Within the black space, there was nothing to answer for, or to, as everything became invisible. It hurt Legolas that his father had come to act, and think, in these ways.

His thoughts were wandering again. He could not waste any more time standing outside this door. So taking a small breath, he raised his hand and knocked three times, slow and loud, upon the wood. The dull thuds carried down the corridor, echoing off the arched walls, ominously surrounding him. For a while, there was no reply to it, nor even any movement, from within. But he waited patiently, not desiring to leave without even trying.

He was rewarded when there was the sound of motion inside and a low voice called out. "Enter," it said.

Preparing to be admonished again, Legolas obeyed and stepped into the room. The first thing he became aware of upon entering was how cold it was in there. Although the corridors outside had been touched with a chill breeze, they had been significantly warmer than this mournful space. Icy sensations pricked his skin beneath his robe and he hastily closed the door to stop the temperature dropping any more. Frowning, he looked about and found that the fire which usually burnt in the corner of the room was flat, not a sole spark flickering amongst the piled wood. It was getting into the depths of winter and even if elves did not feel the cold as other races did, it was never wise to let underground caverns grow too bitter.

But, sitting covered in thick furs and bundled as an elfling might in bed sheets, his father did not seem to have much care. He glanced up as Legolas entered, seeming slightly surprised that he should visit him so late, yet then returned to the book lying open on his lap. He addressed him quietly, but still did not raise his head. "Legolas, I have told you not to spend your nights wandering the palace halls," he merely said. It was an empty statement, devoid of any real threat or anger. Devoid of any emotion, to be truthful.

Legolas nodded to appease him. "I'm sorry," he replied. "I only wanted to -" He trailed off, not entirely sure what he wanted. Many things. Possibly too many things. Possibly only one thing... "I only came to visit you. Are you not cold in here? I ordered the fires to be lit in every room now that the winter is coming in."

"And I ordered mine not to be lit." Thranduil's head remained down, hardly bothering to give any veneer of warmth to his interaction with his son. Legolas thought, with a heavy heart, that the iciness in the room suited his withdrawn, solitary temperament. He half-desired to march over to the abandoned fire and stoke it up to an appropriate, more comforting heat but the atmosphere around him was so dense he hardly thought he could move very far within it. He could do nothing more than stand for some time with his hands hanging loosely, meaninglessly, beside him, wondering what he could possibly utter. Wondering what he was even doing there that night. Maybe he had made a mistake going there. He needed more time to think, more time to consider his next best course of action.

No. The less time he took, the better. He needed to do something quickly, and the fewer thoughts, the fewer hindrances... It scared him to not know how many more days or weeks he would be gifted with in order for him to act.

But, as he stood there, motionless for who knew how long, he began to feel desperately weak, utterly powerless to what lay ahead. His father had been through far more than him, how could he ever break through the barriers he constantly built and perfected? He was naive to ever think he could. It was not something he was wise to; the realm of his own emotions was a deep, tangled place he did not often wander and search into, but his father... Only his beloved, wonderful mother had ever journeyed so bravely forward. Sons were not expected to console their fathers.

From the bed, Thranduil gradually looked up as Legolas stood mutely before him. He returned to his book once or twice, as if veiling his attempts to make some type of contact, then finally opened his mouth to speak. Legolas beat him to it. "Adar, I-" Thranduil immediately backed down, seemingly grateful for the interruption. Caught in his own concerns, Legolas did not notice. "I- I did not mean to disturb you tonight," he continued. "But, as of late - no, for some time, I have felt something that I cannot ignore any longer. I see it in the woodland, hear the whisper of it in the trees but never so much as in the confines of these halls... It frightens me and I cannot pretend that -" His voice faded, laced with frustration that he could not find the appropriate words. If he was not careful, he would simply utter many useless, incomprehensible things that would not benefit either of them. So, he stopped and took a breath, afraid of how much it trembled when it was released.

He could feel his father's eyes on him, half-willing him to carry on, half-willing him to leave. He wrung his hands subconsciously, a habit he had developed in times of anxiety, and eventually, convinced his feet to move, one slow step at a time, as if commanding a puppet, across to Thranduil's bed. Without waiting for his permission, he sat down upon it, head still bowed. He wondered briefly what a sorry sight he must look.

Thranduil looked him over. "Did you have something to say, Legolas?" he asked in a still, monotone voice. Legolas nodded to assure him but then stopped, realising the action forced him to continue. There was no way out now from this trap he had led himself into.

This is your own father, his mind tried to tell him though. There is no need to be so hesitant and frightened of him.

But he was frightened. What of, he wasn't sure. Many things. Many things that could change drastically after this night was through.

"I want to help you, adar," he said suddenly, before he could give himself chance to think. "I want to help you."

Thranduil did not offer any response, nor even any change of expression, but Legolas carried on regardless. "It has been long since you saw your people, the ones who trust you, who believe in your strength. They often ask of you and why you have hidden away for these past years. Ten passings of the seasons is not a vast amount of time yet the presence of one so important and revered is missed in these halls. I hardly know what to tell them anymore."

Thranduil did not seem to heed him for a while, lowering his eyes in a show of disinterest back to the untouched book on his lap. However, as Legolas waited, desperately trying to search for more words in the suddenly vacant corners of his mind, he became aware of a small sigh from his father, a tiny breach in his sturdy defences. He raised his head, saw that Thranduil's shoulders had sagged a fraction, heavy and weary beneath his silken robe. Though he still exuded an air of magnificence and austerity, when he sat there, the bed covers pooled about his waist and the glow of the fire gently touching his face, he seemed somewhat of a different person. A little less harsh and intimidating, no longer only the woodland king but a tired, time-ravaged soul, struggling in the latest tumults in his eternal life. And knowing that they would not be the last.

Legolas' heart bled to look upon him in this way. Though he longed to break out of the fractured confines of their fraught relationship, he knew the journey would be long and he would be forced to see Thranduil in the darkest depths of his thoughts and emotions. He may have no longer been a child yet he still clung to the innocent notion that nothing could bring down his father. He wanted to believe he was a strong rock he could hold on to and he would never crumble. These past ten years had seen a steady, horrid erosion of that delusion. He wanted desperately to reignite his faith in this ancient, distant elf, to find the life which still lurked somewhere inside.

Thranduil finally looked up at Legolas and their eyes met across the short distance of the bed. The icy, bright blue was dimmed in the straining light but they still bore into him. He faced him defiantly, not willing to back down any longer. "These people," Thranduil said, referring to Legolas' former statement. "They should not concern themselves with what does not matter to them. You should continue to tell them what they need to hear. That is all that should be of importance to them regarding...this situation."

Legolas watched him as he dismissed him again, as if he was not able to let his eyes linger on him for more than a few moments. He frowned and in a quick, daring move, grasped the book from Thranduil and put a hand over it. He sighed again and in a quiet voice, told him not to be so childish. Legolas refused to move. "And what is 'this situation', adar?" he asked. "I am confused. You lock yourself away, you refuse to see anyone, you deny yourself the chance to heal. It has been ten years, adar. Why do you impose such punishment upon yourself? I can help you to move past this darkness."

"No." The word was firmly spoken, abrupt, final. As if there was no room for anything else, no room for questioning. "No, you cannot do as you say you can, Legolas. You cannot promise me anything. There is no use for it. There is no hope left for trying."

What his father said frightened Legolas. He moved closer to him, heart beating a little quicker in his chest and reached out to touch his arm before he withdrew it quickly, thinking he was overstepping a silent but unquestioned boundary. "What do you mean?" he asked, and immediately heard the timidity in his voice. Thranduil shook his head, trying to escape from where he now found himself.

"I don't wish to speak anymore tonight, Legolas. Go back to your chambers," he said tersely. But Legolas desisted boldly, not moving an inch.

"No." He echoed the certainty in his father's previous denial of him, though the disappointment inside for disobeying him was still strong. He hesitantly continued. "No, I will not leave. For ten years I have run your realm without question. For ten years I have had to wonder why you seek such solitude. I was forced to heal alone, adar, without you to help me. My heart aches for her too - she was my mother - but she would have wanted you to move forward into brighter places, not trap yourself here in these shadows. There is enough darkness in the world, we do not need to create more. She would have -"

"Do not tell me what she would have wanted!" Thranduil's voice suddenly rose out of him, angry, poisonous, aching with centuries of confined emotion. "Do not speak to me of her! She lingers in my mind often enough, blaming me, reminding me of my failure, her presence mocking me and my wretched life that has passed before. Do not dare to say what she would have wanted for any of us! She never would have wanted this! Not any of this!"

Thranduil's hand had raised up as he was speaking, as if to strike his now trembling son. Legolas cringed away, body hunching in the power of his father's tirade, and hardly dared to even breathe. Thranduil never shouted in such passion, had never done so even before this dark loneliness had begun. His temper could often be aroused but the volume of his voice was always checked, a sign of his complete and utter control over himself. To hear him so enraged now made Legolas shake. He tried to back away out of his father's vicinity, tears welling in his eyes and fear trickling down his spine. It was an awful sensation. He had failed him. He had worsened this already delicate situation.

But, upon seeing this pitiful sight, Thranduil abruptly stopped. He stared down at Legolas, looking up at him with wide, childlike eyes, and slowly, his hand came down, bringing the weight on his shoulders down with it. His appearance turned back to that of a weary, struggling elf. He sighed. "I'm sorry," came a quiet, desperate whisper from his mouth. "I feel as if there is a great forest inside of me, strangled with vines and unable to see the light of day anymore."

At these gently spoken words, Legolas gradually unwound himself, as if emerging from a shell into an uncertain land. He began to sit up, breath coming in short pants. Thranduil averted his eyes, like he was in pain. "I cannot get out," he murmured. "She is in there, blaming me for not protecting her well enough. Blaming me for - not loving her enough."

"Adar..."

"And she is not alone in there. My father, slain on the battlefield, is there, wondering where his son has gone. He brings with him all the disasters that have befallen me. Every one. And there are many, trapped within the vines, but making room for more. Because there will be more if I stay here. There is no hope left for me. Her disappearance was just another reminder of that. It was because of me that she was taken away."

Legolas listened to his father's monotone speech, his head starting to swim with the pace his heart was beating and the amount Thranduil was starting to reveal. Tears sprung back to his eyes, threatening to escape. How could his father blame himself for what had happened? He had known his life had been full of tragedies, ones that had been locked deep away, but this was beyond his comprehension. His father could not be at fault for anything that had happened to him. He tried to open his mouth to say that yet Thranduil still continued, voice distant and now devoid of emotion again.

"I have already made up my mind," he muttered. "There is nothing left for me. They want me to join them. All these... disasters upon me - they must be telling me something. I will not stay here for much longer. I will sail. There is nothing else to do."

The admission hit Legolas like an arrow fired from within a few paces of his heart. All the breath rushed out of him and he struggled to keep upright. "No!" It came out louder and more desperate than he thought capable of himself. "No, you cannot leave! What of me? What of your son?!"

Thranduil shook his head. "You have done a fine job in my absence, Legolas. You will be king and restore this realm to its beauty once again."

"No! No! Adar!" Without thinking, he reached out and grasped Thranduil's robe, curling it tightly in his hands as if he never planned to let him go. Tears spilled unashamedly down his cheeks. "I refuse to watch you sail away. I will help you! Why do you leave me like this?"

Thranduil looked at Legolas and both could see the pain swimming in each other's eyes. He shook his head. "I cannot bear to look upon you any longer," he whispered. "I cannot stand it. You are my weakness."

Legolas frowned in confusion, gulping for air. He desperately searched his father's face. "Have I failed you?" he asked.

"No." There was a pause which maybe only lasted for a few seconds but it felt like an age to Legolas. He clung on to Thranduil, trembling incessantly. Thranduil tried to disentangle him to no avail. "I have failed you."

"No!" he cried. "Adar, you could never fail me! This darkness has deluded you! You could never do such a -"

Legolas' words faded away as Thranduil suddenly grasped him by the hair and pulled his mouth swiftly to his. He kissed him fiercely, hundreds of years of forbidden longing bursting to the surface, and Legolas could feel his tears dripping down his face. His eyes widened. No. Not this. He had never imagined, never even begun to think.. His own father.

He pulled away, body almost refusing to work. Shivering, he backed away, gasping for breath, and chest aching with the thumping of his heart. Thranduil watched him, no longer stoic but ravaged by tears and horrid guilt. "She was taken away from me," he whimpered. "Because I cannot get over my weakness."

And Legolas ran, unable to see, unable to think, unable to do anything more.

tbc

* * *

**so finally updated this! In fact, the plot changed halfway through this chapter but I think I prefer it now anyway ~ hope you liked!**

**thanks for all the feedback so far - I know this is an unconventional pairing but thanks for giving a go :) **


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE **

The following morning, Thranduil was greeted back into reality by the chill breeze of winter creeping through his room and winding into the tangled bundles of his bed sheets. It ignored his robes, seeping straight through them, and froze his form before he could even find the means to protect himself. It was a bitter reminder of the time of year. And a bitter reminder of his lapse in sense for not allowing the fire to burn through the night.

Yet he did not try to put up a shield against it. In one quick, sweeping motion, he threw back the covers and exposed his body, only clothed in the thinnest of sleeping robes, to the cold air. It felt like leaping into the depths of icy, clean water. For a moment, his breath rushed out of him, fluttering mockingly before his mouth, before he gained his senses again and curled up his body to sit on the edge of his bed. From this position, it was slightly warmer, the heat of his form still imprinted on the sheets below, but not enough to escape the hand of savage winter.

Still, as unpleasant as it was, he secretly relished the sensation. He enjoyed the temporary numbness of his skin, the feeling of a void where his flesh should be. For a few blessed seconds, it stopped his darkest of thoughts from returning. There was no space for them to burrow in, no haven for them to destroy. They merely floated, just out of his perception, only a shadow, imprisoned by his lack of feeling. It was gratifying, liberating. At least for the short time it lasted for.

They would return though. And, as soon as his mind caught up with his body, or maybe his body caught up with his mind, in they delved, slowly beginning to again poison the abandoned recesses.

His whole being ached as he helplessly recalled the events of the previous night. The guilt of what he had done rent at his very fëa, consuming his entire conscience. Why? he wondered. Why had he done such a thing? What part of him possibly believed that it could ease matters, that it could make any of his pain simpler to bear? It had, instead, made it worse. He had destroyed everything in a few misjudged seconds; everything he had done to hide his immorality, everything he had done to keep it from Legolas.

But now - Five hundred years of hidden pining, of defending the one thing that mattered to him anymore, had all come crashing down. No longer could he pretend around Legolas. No longer could he look upon him and be secure in his innocence.

Yet it had been a long, long time since Legolas had been innocent. Even as a child, he had been mature, far more attuned with what was right and what was wrong than the other elflings. He enjoyed his studies and excelled at them, reading heartily and avidly. Often Thranduil had watched him and worried that he was too mentally-developed and focused for his young age. He approached everything, from his tutorials to archery, with wilful determination and did not stop until he was perfect.

But then his mother would come along and it would all change. He became a sweet, open, warm little elf with the brightest smile Thranduil had ever seen. All his studious austerity would vanish and he would sing and play and chatter with his mother until his body could physically not hold him up anymore. And then he would be tucked into his large bed - obviously still protesting he was not tired - and sleep, a beautiful, naive, elfling, through the night.

Everyone always joked that Legolas had the best qualities from both his father and mother; his firm dedication and fortitude and her gentility and affection. He was a true product of their bond. And after marrying his wife, he was the best thing that had ever happened to Thranduil. He finally felt that the years of darkness in his life, all the trauma he had been forced to suffer, was over. He had a wonderful family and everything that was important to him was safe in the grasp of his fortress.

How had it ever come to this? he wondered, alone, in his cold bedroom, one thousand years later. How had that ever changed? Because not any trace of those blissful times remained, only a ghostly, secret painting in the depths of the palace. They were but a faded memory, a dreamtime, a laconic lull in the storms of his eternal existence.

He knew, truthfully, what had caused it, the collapse of that short stability, to happen.

It was his fault, his own forbidden, sinful longing eroding at their shared years of happiness. He had torn them apart. He had split them asunder. His own poisonous mind had cursed them all.

It hurt vividly to think of such things. As he rose from the bed, his legs shook like a newborn foal's, taking the weight of all his failings harboured in his breast. He went through this each and every morning, awaking to a remorseless dawn and demanding himself to regain his composure before facing his people. It became harder and harder as time went on and that day, mere hours after sealing Legolas' fate to his own, it bore down like an unbelievable weight upon his insides.

It ached so much that he could barely take any steps across the room. He found himself trembling all over and was forced to sit back upon the end of his bed. It steadied him for a few moments, giving him something to place his shaking hands onto. The sheets were rumpled and messy beneath them, a sign of his troubled night and his haunted rest. Still, he clutched at the material desperately, binding it in his fists and pulling as the world span about him. This was his punishment, he thought. This was what he deserved for his wickedness.

Sighing, he let his head drop in submission. He could do nothing against this venom which had seeped into his mind and body. It paralysed him, destroyed him, and no matter what he tried, he could not quell the source. For centuries, he had striven to banish these thoughts of Legolas, to return to normalcy, but all of his attempts were in vain. He had come too far now to ever go back.

There seemed not to be anything more he could do. Never had he heard the fateful cry of the gulls or longed for the scent of the sea but his only option remained there. He would sail to the West, complete the journey ended long ago, and face the judgement of the Valar. Nothing good remained for him on Middle-Earth. Legolas would fare better without him, away from the forbidden shadow hanging over them both. He would make a faultless king; all princes, including himself, were trained and learned for that eventuality, and he would rise to the challenge as he had risen to every other challenge in his life.

Thranduil sighed again as he thought back over his times with Legolas. For five hundred years, he had been nothing more than his wonderful, loyal, wise son. He had grown and developed quickly, blossoming charmingly into a wonderful adult ellon and after his first century, there was no denying his appeal and grace. Many suitors had come before him, their eyes on the new most desirable treasure in the kingdom, but for the most part, Legolas had not been interested in any. He was more focused on his studies, his combat coaching and his family. Thranduil was glad for it; he did not want his son's lovely wild spirit to be tied down so soon, and his mother agreed.

The centuries passed though and both female and male elves continued to pine after the young prince. Thranduil turned each and every one down, using the excuse to himself that none were good enough for his Legolas.

And this had been the first sign that something, some dreadful seed, had been planted within him.

His Legolas. He realised gradually that he wanted to keep him all to himself, his ever-lasting ray of happiness to hold the darkness at bay. He brought him hope, he brought him joy; everything he thought he could never achieve again. If he could keep him by his side, he could prevent all the terrible things that had occurred in his life from happening to Legolas. He would protect him and in return, he would be granted the peace that had so long eluded him.

But, slowly, yet surely, it had all started to go downhill from there.

Thranduil remembered in horridly vivid detail the first time it had dawned on him that his feelings were more than familial. It had been a sudden realisation, creeping up on him like a silent killer one warm, otherwise beautiful, morning.

He had been walking alone through the woodland under the awakening sun when the sound of movement within water came to his ears. Always suspicious, even then, he had become alert and braced for whatever was nearby. However, he needn't have been so wary as he soon stumbled across a small lake at the edge of their borders, protectively lined with tall trees and secluded within their care. He was not unfamiliar with it but the sight that greeted him surprised him.

No matter how many times he tried to suppress it, that image in the pool still returned to him all those centuries later. It haunted him, assaulting him with tangled, terrible cravings and needs. The gentle glow of the light filtering through the trees and illuminating Legolas' glowing bare skin. The silken fountain of his hair winding through the dewy grass. The long, slender curve of his leg rising from the still water. The blissful tranquility in his unspeakably beautiful face.

Thranduil sharply remembered the desire that had suddenly pierced him as he stood there, agape, in the shade of the woods. He had yearned to join the lovely young elf, to take him in his arms and kiss him until they were both breathless, to wrap himself around the lithe body and love him unceasingly. It was such a sudden passion that he had no ability to stop it. It penetrated his heart, strangling it into submission, and even when he turned and hurried away from the lake and his son, he could not get it out. It was stuck, encaged, forever.

He refused to see him, or anyone else, for the rest of the day. He had tried to calm himself, the binds of his control quickly coming loose as the hours stretched on, but the terrible realisation of his forbidden, sinful wishes could not be ignored, or denied. He adored him. He revered him.

He desired him.

Hundreds of painful years of turmoil had followed. He could not rid these feelings for Legolas, despite all his desperate efforts, and gradually, all his hard-won happiness faded into nothing. In his mind, he watched his family wither away in the contagion of his secret needs and he could not do anything to stop it. On the outside, he played a futile masquerade and allowed his wife to believe she was helping him when it slipped but no one could heal him, not now.

When she disappeared, the blame lay in his rotten heart. He could not love two souls, especially not with this hidden intensity. He had not believed it possible; that his affection and care could be so simply torn from one place to another. It was not normal, it was not what was meant to happen. But what part of this whole disorder was normal, he asked himself almost daily. What part of it could be what was intended for him upon this earth? His son, his own son...

And so, lost in the darkening boughs of the woods, she went. Their union, which he tried so hard to cling on to, was eclipsed and faded away in the blinding light of his shameful fervour. He was left with a void and to his infinite distress, it was soon filled with the tendrils of his sins.

There was no way back now. He had to leave - his home, his realm, his Legolas - before he could do any more damage.

Gradually, his hand still pressed against the silken coverlet, he rose from the bed on shaking legs. He had to greet the day and his subjects with it - create at least some type of illusion of kingship on his hollow throne. His son could only do so much. He could not wear the crown - not yet, anyway.

Upon the other side of the room, mounted upon a carven desk, was a mirror, before which his wife had sat many a time in their former chambers. He ignored it now, as he had done recently, and crossed into the large connected space that housed his clothes. He changed quickly, undressing out of his sleeping robes and into ones more appropriate for rule; silver-lined, shimmering, cold. They couldn't have been more different to those that his father used to wear. And he was sure that when Legolas became king, he would choose something just as dissimilar.

He had been just about to pick up his crown when there came a formal - yet still somehow bright - knock upon the door. His heart momentarily dropped, before a voice called out "my lord?" and he realised who had come: Galion, to aid with his morning routine, as he offered to do at the start of each day. Thranduil often said he did not have to help him but he was ever loyal and insisted upon it.

He bowed lowly upon entering and pronounced his greeting with genuine sentiment. Having spent nearly his whole life around the king (or the prince as he had been when he had come into his service), their relations were warm and companionable. If Thranduil had not been his lord and he had not been his butler, he believed they could have been good friends. As it was though, a distance, enforced by rank, was held between them. It was a shame, he sometimes thought: there were not many the king could call close to him anymore.

He merely inclined his head in a silent form of welcome as the auburn-haired elf stood patiently before him. Even at this minimal recognition, Galion seemed pleased. He went to close the door, following the usual habit of the early hours, but Thranduil quickly held up a hand, stopping him. "No, it is alright, Galion," he said. "I will not be needing you this morning."

The butler frowned a little, hand hovering over the doorknob. "My Lord?"

"Your services are appreciated but not essential, you know that," Thranduil continued. "But I do have one question for you before you leave me -" He paused, wondering if he should ask it, or stay ignorant for a little while longer. He felt his stomach tighten as he went to speak again but tried to keep his voice calm and almost vacant, a stoic ruler. "Have you seen my son this morning? How does he fare?"

Galion shook his head. "The Prince has not arisen yet, my Lord. I have seen no sign of him."

Thranduil's heart dropped. Yes, it was as he feared. Usually Legolas awakened and departed his chambers long before he did, even as the king. He loved the early mornings and would often spend them outside of the darkened palace, not returning until his duties called him back. Galion must have noticed something wrong with his absence but if he did, he did not show it outwardly. Thranduil tried desperately hard not to either, nodding curtly and dismissing the butler, informing him he would show himself shortly.

When he had left, he briefly considered visiting Legolas, if only to stand outside his door and wait for his presence. But, as quickly as he'd thought of it, he abandoned the thought, deciding he could not do such a thing yet. For a moment, being beside Galion had forced him to compose himself and behave as he normally may but now he was gone, his hidden emotions came to the fore again. They withered him remorselessly, yet he could not spend his hours shut away in his quarters. Even if his son did.

He retrieved his crown from before the mirror, carefully laying it upon his head with steady hands. He forced himself to look upon his reflection at last, icy-eyed, unmoved, enduring. Crested with the razor-sharp head-piece, he finally appeared how his subjects saw him: only the image in the glass, never anything more.

He would have to face them now, he supposed. Look into their judging gazes and talk to them of the wintery realm. He knew he would only be searching for one person in their midst though, as always.

And when he found him, the great, wise king did not know what he'd do.

* * *

The day passed just as slowly as Thranduil had dreaded it would do. Outside the palace, Anor struggled in her journey across the clean, bitter sky and cast intangible rays down upon the petrified trees, hardly touching their freezing bark. As the afternoon began to draw on and turn into early evening, a fine snow began to fall, sprinkling the forest floor with a feathery white dust and causing the young elflings to break out of their parents' guard and run amongst it. A long time had passed since snow had come to Mirkwood and Thranduil doubted many of them had even seen it before. He watched them for a considerable while from one of the upper windows, smiling distantly at their joy. Sometimes, before his eyes, one appeared to transform into a little blonde child, holding onto his mother's hand and pointing back at his father to show him the patterns he had made on the ground. Legolas used to love this time of year. Everyone did; there was something pure and innocent about the whiteness.

Now it only felt stark and vacant. And, when the older elves had realised where their children had gone, they immediately came running to bring them inside. They knew what winter meant to their king.

He passed amongst them and his counsellors in silence for most of the day. Nobody spoke to him unless spoken to first, unless there was information of dire importance to be heard, and he half-relished, half-detested the stillness. It ensured he did not have to place his shaken confidence in a voice that he could not guarantee would work properly, but at the same time, meant that an eerily quiet bubble was placed about him. No one would penetrate it, knowing not to disturb the king, yet he felt that there was something brewing just outside of his knowledge, something beyond what had occurred the previous night.

He spent most of the day pacing, roaming the halls, walking back and forth upon the dais, to try and banish the thoughts from his head. They swam rampantly in his mind though, a constant, unstoppable deluge that, despite their abundance, he could not even begin to fathom. The current was far too consuming for that. So he meandered, lost, vacant, about his fortress, watching the changing of the shadows upon the walls, and nothing more.

There was only one notion that kept returning to him; a quiet voice that whispered continuously into his ear as the day wore on, and the darkness got deeper. At first, he had dispelled it but when the heaviness weighed further and further down upon him, it oppressed all his misgivings and forced him to accept.

He had to talk with Legolas.

It would be no use to believe that such a shocking confession could merely be swept away. For five hundred years, he had been trying to do that with his feelings, and as his current situation now proved, it had not worked. This would not just vanish. No matter how painful, no matter how uncomfortable, they must talk about it. He soon came to realise, in the depths of his solitude, that he could not leave Middle Earth without having done so. Not after having...kissed him.

He still remembered the feel of his mouth against his. The softness of his lips, the tantalising glimpse of warm wetness within, the flutter of an flawless touch... The moment was imprinted upon his skin, and forever would be, even when he stepped onto the shores of Valinor.

Why had he done it? He asked himself that question countless times as he lingered through the kingdom. Why had he been so mindless as to actually act upon his terrible desires? It was one thing to harbour them inside but to perform them was different, a whole other level of degeneration. He knew if he hadn't have done it, he couldn't have mentioned a word to Legolas. He would have kept him out, blissfully ignorant of his father's wrongness. And then he would have left, having cursed only one of them.

He would bear the weight of the world for Legolas but this... It was too much.

What had he done?

The words continued to revolve around his mind as he waited by the front gates for the return of the guard patrol that evening. Legolas had ventured out with them earlier that day, like he usually did, and he would soon be arriving back. As every minute passed, Thranduil felt his heart beating quicker. He stared at each tiny movement of the foliage beyond the bridge and repeatedly imagined the sound of footsteps coming closer. All of his senses seemed as though they were heightened, in harmony with even the most minute sound, sight or smell of the forest.

So when the garrison finally came near, though their movements were light and agile, they gave the impression of an entire army marching upon his borders. He watched them impatiently as they crossed over the river towards him, the roaring of the water almost deafening in his ears. They were moving far too slowly - he needed them to be faster. Where was Legolas?

For the second time that day, he found himself imagining each one was a golden-haired elf, no longer a child, but an able, striking warrior. He stared in their midst but couldn't find him, not a sign.

And when the guard at the head of the company suddenly started to speed up, breaking the almost leisurely pace of the rest, his stomach twisted acutely. He hurried and all eyes abruptly turned to the king who they now realised was standing before them, face a picture of horror. He stared, throat constricting, hands trembling so much he had to squeeze them behind his back. Everything appeared to deaden as the guard knelt down before him, as if he was looking at him through clouded water.

"My Lord," he said, and his tone was filled with utter concern. "Your son - he is gone."

(Tbc)

* * *

**I'm so sorry this took so long! So sorry! But I know what I am doing with this plot now more or less so hopefully the next update may be quicker? :) **

**Thanks for all the feedback so far! Reviews always appreciated :)**

**Translations for this chapter:**

**Fea - soul**

**Ellon - male elf **

**Anor - sun**

**And previously: Adar/ada - father/dad (or daddy), iôn - son **


End file.
